CHAPTER THREE
Bechimo
Wyrd Space
Hevelin caught up with them at the door to Forcing Room Three, which, Theo thought, she might have known he would. He burbled cheerfully, stood on his hind legs and steadied himself with a paw against her knee.
Inside her head, she “saw” trees, leaves, bushes, grasses, all accompanied with a feeling of dreamy excitement, as if finding a new and different kind of tree and/or leaf-bearing plant were cause for celebration of itself.
Which, Theo thought, for a herbivore, it might well be.
“We don’t know what kind of tree it is,” she said, forming the thoughts firmly as she spoke the words. “If you eat one of the leaves, you might get sick.”
There came a distinct impression of laughter.
Theo sighed, and blew her bangs out of her face.
“What does he say?” Kara asked.
“I’m to understand that there isn’t a leaf that grows can harm Hevelin,” she said, meaning it for sarcasm.
Hevelin sent her a thrill of approval, and she sighed again.
“Apparently that’s not overstating the case.” She paused, to better consider the next picture forming inside her head.
“He claims to be an expert on leaves and on the things that grow them.”
Kara paused, her head tipped to one side.
“He may not be boasting,” she said slowly.
“Right; it could be true.”
Theo dropped to one knee, and looked into the norbear’s furry face.
“I want your promise that you will not sample leaves or twigs from this tree. Joyita and Bechimo need a leaf for a comparison. Kara and I are here to collect that leaf for them, and to observe the tree for…anomalies or interesting features. I’ll be very pleased to have your impressions of the tree, as an expert, but until that leaf is cleared as safe, no snacking. Agreed?”
Amused agreement rattled through her head. Theo stood up and exchanged a glance with Kara.
“I have his word as a crew member and a norbear,” she said, straight-faced.
“That is very good,” Kara said, equally serious. “His word will bind him.”
* * *
The tree in its pot sat under a simple radiant lamp, its leaves moving slightly, as if, Theo thought, it was dancing. The air in the forcing room was somewhat cooler than the rest of the ship, and there was a minty tang to it that seemed somewhat familiar.
Hevelin gave a high-pitched squeak and ran forward, squeaking again when Kara smoothly bent and swooped him up to her shoulder.
“You will be able to see better from here,” she said, raising a hand to cover his back paws. “And you will be less tempted to break your word. My grandmother used to say that the most difficult promise to preserve was the one most easily given.”
Hevelin might have had something to say to that, Theo thought. She might even have asked what it was, but for the sudden exuberance of dragons.
A large black dragon soared wing to wing with a slightly smaller golden dragon. They flew straight at her, or maybe she flew toward them. She felt cool breezes flowing along the planes of her wings; a deep breath brought her a savory tang, like ozone. Her shoulder muscles worked as she brought her wings down, moving more swiftly toward the approaching pair, until, abruptly, they veered, and she did—or tried to.
She cried out, twisting as her wings failed her, her balance gone ragged. She clutched for the nearest support—
Which was, of course, the little tree in its pot.
Her hand struck warm bark; she felt the trunk give, heard a creak, and snatched her hand away, dancing in a circle, half blind, terrified that she might have broken it, and now she remembered—she remembered where she had been recently, where the air tasted sharp and clean, like ozone and mint—
“Theo!”
She blinked…up, at Kara, who was standing, wide-eyed, hand extended, while she…was a muddle of tangled legs seated ignominiously on the floor, a bouquet of leaves in one hand.
“Theo!” Bechimo sounded frightened; his voice, too loud, coming from directly overhead. “Are you ill?”
“I’m all right,” she said. “Just…surprised.”
She looked to Kara.
“There were…dragons,” she managed. “I thought I was a dragon, flying to meet them.” She sighed and rolled to her feet, looking at the leaves in her hand.
“We have our sample anyway.”
“So it seems. But, Theo—dragons?”
She nodded.
“A black dragon and a golden dragon. Flying straight at me. I was…flying, too. Right before I fell, anyway.” She looked beyond Kara to the tree, with its dancing leaves.
“I think it recognizes me.”
Kara frowned; then her eyes widened.
“Tree and Dragon, in person,” she said, turning to regard the tree in her turn. “It really is a…child of Korval’s Tree, then?”
“I’m convinced,” Theo said. “Best to get confirmation, though.”
Impulsively, she stepped past Kara to the tree, and carefully put her hand against the fragile trunk.
“Are you all right? Do you need anything else from us to make you comfortable? To keep you healthy?”
A fleeting image of the black dragon and the gold; a hesitation followed by a glimpse of boneless movement, and the feel of fur along her skin.
“I’m the only dragon on board,” she said aloud. “We don’t have a ship cat, but we do have Hevelin.” She turned her head.
“Kara, bring Hevelin and let him touch a branch. You touch one, too.”
There was a flutter at the edge of Theo’s vision when Hevelin gripped his branch, as if the tree had tried to fit the “cat” template over him, and discarded it.
Kara’s touch woke a warm ripple down Theo’s spine, and a softly moving silhouette, as of sun filtering through leaves. No dragons darkened the horizon.
“Thank you,” Theo said, as Kara withdrew her hand. “I hope to be able to make more…comfortable arrangements for you soon. In the meantime, be welcome on my ship.”
Her answer was a distant image: the flare and glitter of a starfield, phasing in.
“That’s it,” she agreed. “Until soon.”
* * *
The door closed. Kara bent to let Hevelin down to the deck, then straightened, her eyes still wide.
“You talk to it like it understands.”
“It does,” Theo said. “Korval’s big Tree is a biochemist, remember? And not just a tree?”
Kara stood still, and took several very deep breaths.
Theo waited patiently.
“So, you will be taking this…personage…to…to Korval?”
“Maybe,” Theo said, and turned toward the bridge. “But it’ll complicate things.”
* * * * *
“You’ll wanna take a look at this.”
The mechanic was laconic. She was also very nearly disrespectful in her zeal to demonstrate her lack of fear. Vepal found her refreshing. Trooper Ochin, whose uneasy task it was to guard Vepal’s honor, was not inclined to be so tolerant.
“You will respect the ambassador to the Unaffiliated Worlds!” he snarled.
The mechanic was cleaning her hands on a grimy cloth that might once have been a proud red, now worn by abuse into a trembling pink. She was a well-grown Terran female, but she had to look up into Ochin’s, doubtless outraged, face. Her mouth tightened; in irritation, Vepal thought, rather than alarm.
“I ain’t disrepected him, now have I?” she snapped. “Disrespect, I’d’ve just put everything back like I found it an’ not said nothing. I’m saying something.” She looked again to Vepal and ducked her chin slightly, which Vepal chose to interpret as a respectful salute.
He rose—not quite as tall as Ochin, leaner, older. As odd as it might be, at Temp Headquarters, to find a soldier gone grey, Terrans put a value on the silver hair at his temples.
“Show me,” he said, and the mechanic tucked the rag back into her belt and turned toward the repair bay.
* * *
“Ordinary way of things, wouldn’t be no reason for me to be opening up this section here, not with it being the distribution chamber gone dabino. Got that swapped out, an’ it come to me—ship being as old as it is—might be that new chamber working at full could might stress some other systems. Figured it best t’run a complete diagnostic, and take care of anything looked too risky right here and now.”
“I appreciate your initiative,” Vepal said gravely—and sincerely. Not many would have taken the time to be so thorough to a non-local ship. When that ship belonged to an Yxtrang, ambassador though he be, haste might be valued over care, in order to see the ship well away.
The mechanic snorted lightly.
“Don’t want you mad at me, do I? Turn ’round to find you blew a catalyst array, an’ you’re coming back t’station with a shipload o’friends?”
The mechanic also possessed fine reasoning abilities, and a honed instinct for survival. She could not know that a squad of avenging soldiers was the unlikeliest answer to news that the ambassador’s ship had malfunctioned catastrophically, all hands lost, nor did the ambassador enlighten her. He merely inclined his head.
“Go on,” he said. “You ran the diagnostics and…?”
“Well, that’s what I’m telling you! Come up with a couple bits ’n bobs might not’ve stood the strain. Replaced them—you’ll see ’em on your invoice, broke out by kind an’ time. Gotta charge the parts, or the boss’ll think I’m mizzlin’ him. No charge for my extra time. Din’t come but less’n hour, anyhoot.
“But, see, I got them risky bits swapped handy enough, and there’s still these three blips on the diagnostic—look like ghosts—y’get ’em, sometime, though the machine this bay ain’t prone, and it was either ignore ’em, run another test, or take a bare-eye look-see and find are they really there.
“Did that, and they were—an’ here they still are. Wheels’re locked on that roller; you wanna kneel, you’ll be able to see ’nough, I think. I’ll put the light on ’em.”
Carefully, and to Ochin’s palpable dismay, Vepal knelt on the broad board indicated, and ducked down to look under the belly of his ship.
A spotlight flared. He closed his eyes just too late to avoid having his dim sight ruined, and he kept them closed, patiently, until the afterflare faded.
Cautiously, he opened his eyes—and considered the thing reposing in its pool of light.
He recognized it, of course—a standard duty hull breaker. It could be triggered from a distance, or preset to explode at some preferred time.
“How long do you think that device has been there?” he asked the mechanic.
There was a hesitation.
“Take the dings an’ the dust of the thing, I’m guessin’—an’ hear what I’m sayin’—guessin’ couple Standards ’least. All of ’em look ’bout the same, in those terms, and takin’ location into ’count—so wherever they roosted, they come as a flock.
“I’m gonna move the light now. Show you the other two.”
Vepal closed his eyes, opened them when the mechanic said, “Here’s number two.”
The first had been secured at what might have been the length of a soldier’s arm, without any attempt to hide it. The second had been positioned with more care, inside the shadow of an intake dimple. The third had likewise been affixed with at least a thought to stealth, directly over the Jump engine.
Vepal sighed, and rose to his feet.
“Thank you,” he said, and “I have a question.”
The mechanic looked up at him.
“If it’s can you remove those?—answer’s I got a better’n good chance of settin’ one off if I try.”
The ambassador sighed. In addition to the loss of his vessel, and possibly the mechanic, whom he was coming to value, there were many rules which had been given to them upon docking, regarding the sanctity of the station and what penalties accrued to persons who were so careless as to harm its environment in any way.
It was…reasonably probable…that the devices were defective. Had they been of Liaden or Terran manufacture—but these had the unmistakable form factor of Troop-made detonators. Such devices very often did operate, to some level or another. Given the mechanic’s estimate of their tenure, and his own certain knowledge of when he had last been in a port where his vessel was likely to be sabotaged, it would seem that these were among the majority of devices that did not operate.
Still, they were a danger, especially the first, which had been so artlessly placed. A lucky rock strike, or even a bad docking…
“What I can do, though,” the mechanic said, “is give ’em a bath.”
He looked down into her broad and freckled face.
“A bath?” he repeated.
“Yeah, see, they ain’t the safest things on-station, but odds’re with you. They ain’t been triggered in any number of Standards, so could be they can’t be triggered. The danger’s where if they’re just biding their time while the clock ticks on, but I’ll tell you, once I saw what they was, I put on my big ears and whiskers, an’ I din’t find nothing that said workin’ preset to me.
“So, what I propose to do is give each of ’em an acid bath, finished off with a mil-grade sealant. Then, what you wanna do, once you’re out from station, and all by your lonesome, is take a walkabout, an’ peel them units off the hull. Like I say, prolly they’re already dusted, but you don’t wanna be taking the chance that one’ll wake up.”
She shook her head, ruefully.
“Just can’t trust unstable tech.”
Had she been his Trooper, he would that moment have bestowed upon her a bonus, a grade increase, and permission to have the Flower of Genius tattooed at the outer corner of her left eye. He would have had her at his own table for a full cycle, and he would have assigned to her such assistants as might profit from her, to the benefit of the Troop.
She was, of course, not Troop, but Terran, and better for her in these dark days that she was so. He must reward her service otherwise.
And so he would. But first, orders.
“Yes; a bath and sealant. Can this procedure be added to the current work session?”
“Sure. Sealant wants thirty-six hours to cure. If that fits your schedule, then I’ll get on it.”
“Do so. Account your time on the invoice, even if it is less than an hour. I insist.”
She hesitated, then gave a jerky nod.
“You got it.”
“Thank you,” he said, and smiled at her—the small smile that did not bare the teeth, that Terrans found soothing and acceptable.
“You have been of service.” He paused. “Your name?”
“Name?” She tapped the embroidered badge on the right breast of her coveralls. “Gorish. Fleeny Gorish.”
“Thank you, Mechanic Gorish. I leave you now to your work.”
He gathered the somewhat subdued Ochin with a glance and left the bay.
* * * * *
The trees had been magnificent. Their crowns must have reached above the tall canyon rim, and together they had probably shaded the valley from the blaring heat of the local star. An entire ecosystem had no doubt depended on them.
Before they’d fallen, one by one, Theo thought, looking down the valley into the carnage of a fallen forest. She began walking, relieved that the walls of the canyon shaded her from the worst rays of the star.
She walked steadily, the number of dead trees reducing as she did, until, as she broke out again from the canyon into a ridge that might have been formed by a now-dry waterway, the count came down to a single tree, which had grown taller than the tallest of the fallen she had passed, before it had fallen and another tree grew up at the farthest extent of its branches, racing for the sky before it, too, fell, seeding its successor in arid soil.
She crossed the dry waterway on the wide corpse of a tree. Ahead, there were only a few more trees; beyond them, blasted boulders and sun-baked rocks. Dust spiraled briefly in a burst of hot wind.
A leaf fluttered, bright green.
Theo gasped, choked on the dust, and trotted forward.
Tangled in the dead branches of the last tree was…
…another tree. Small, taller maybe than was wise, given its lack of girth, green leaves fluttering from thin branches.
She reached to her belt, found a water bulb and leaned close, offering the tree her shadow as her body blocked the wind.
Her hands were broad and brown, dust thick in the grooves of wide knuckles. She emptied the bulb and sat there, half dazed with walking, heat, low water and lower rations.
After a while, she lay down in the tree’s scant shade, the welcome smell of a green, growing thing lulling her to sleep.
Theo stretched a hand out, meaning to touch finger to leaf. Light bloomed, and she sat up in her bunk, in her cabin. She looked around her, to be certain that it was her cabin; that the long line of dead trees, and the last of the line, still living, was nothing more…
“Theo?” Bechimo asked, his voice the merest whisper in her ear. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” she murmured, settling herself back into her bunk. “Nothing wrong, Bechimo. Just a…dream…”
Her eyes drifted shut; she was asleep again before the light turned itself off.
* * *
Theo woke again before the alarm gave tongue, rising gently from the deeps of sleep to full and pleasant wakefulness. For a moment, she lay with her eyes closed, listening to the sweet murmur all about her, delighting in the stroke of space along her skin, and the simple, sensual pleasure of fully functional, perfectly tuned subsystems. These things faded from her attention during the normal busyness of a duty shift, so she had decided that she would take time at each waking to attend and acknowledge the senses she had acquired, when she had become, not merely captain, but bonded captain, of the self-aware and not-exactly-completely-legal ship, Bechimo.
“Good morning, Theo,” Bechimo said now, inside her ear, or inside her head.
“Good morning,” she answered and opened her eyes. She swept the blanket aside and came to her feet, already stepping into the first move of her morning dance.
It was a specialized dance, designed to wake and warm mind and muscle. Theo danced it well and with pleasure. When she was done, she entered the ’fresher, feeling Bechimo’s attention withdraw from her as she did so.
She grinned. When she had first come aboard, she’d had words—strong words—to say about privacy and where she expected to be unmonitored by Bechimo himself. As a result of those words, he had promised to leave her private in her bath—a sincere promise, sincerely made, she thought. But still a promise that he couldn’t, with the best of intentions, keep.
Ship systems automatically monitored all crew. Granted that those were automated systems, and Bechimo had no more need to attend them when all was well than she had to keep an ear on her own heartbeat.
Now that they were bonded, she figured he was just generally aware of her, as she was of him. Most likely, more, since Bechimo’s processing power far exceeded her own. If her shower gave her an extra thrill this morning, for being colder than she cared to have it at first, he’d note that, along with the blossoming of her pleasure, as the temp warmed. He might not pay particular attention to it, but it would be there, inside the data flow.
The fact that he’d started providing a sensation of withdrawal to her after they had become bonded…was interesting. Maybe he meant to reinforce the idea that he kept his promises. Or to emphasize that, even though they were bonded, they were still separate individuals.
Showered, and dressed in ship clothes—sweater, loose pants, and sticky-soled slippers—Theo walked down to the galley to draw breakfast: tea and a veggie roll. Kara’s ability to coax vegetables—lots of vegetables—out of the ’ponics units, and Clarence’s baking skill produced some…interesting combos. The veggie rolls, now, in Theo’s opinion, weren’t bad at all, warmed and with a swipe of soy cheese on them.
She was alone in the galley, though she could hear voices from the bridge: Clarence and Kara, and an occasional comment from Joyita. The rhythm of their voices sounded relaxed—prolly just telling space tales to keep themselves awake. There wasn’t much to do, here in this pocket of wyrd space that Bechimo held to be safe, except keep watch, and log the instances of flotsam coming in.
The ship, and the tree that had been its only passenger, had been one such bit of flotsam; the largest they’d encountered, and hopefully, Theo thought, swiping more cheese on her second roll, the last.
She could at least make sure it was the last they had to deal with, stipulating that nothing had come in while she slept. Shan and Val Con had both sent messages, urging her to go home to Surebleak. Shan had also told her to abandon the Loop she and Bechimo had been exploring for him—his right, under the contract, but…
Theo sighed.
First of all, Surebleak wasn’t Bechimo’s home port. Not that Bechimo had a home port precisely, having been more or less a fugitive from one set of authorities or another since he’d been built. She was a little shaky on the exact date for the Complex Logic Laws, but even if he hadn’t been a violation when he’d been built, he was definitely a violation now.
There were people hunting him, specifically because he was an AI. Most seemed to want to use him…somehow. There might even, Theo reflected, sipping tea, be others who wanted Bechimo because he was a violation; there were bounties paid to folk who brought in rogue AIs, or proof of having killed one. If Bechimo had enemies of that ilk, though, they were being much more circumspect than the other sort.
And then there were those who overlapped the group that just wanted to control Bechimo. That was the group which was hunting them—Theo, Bechimo, and the crew—because they were contractors of Clan Korval.
Clan Korval, which in this case meant Delm Korval—her brother Val Con and his lifemate, Miri—had done violence against the planet of Liad. He’d had his reasons and…they’d seemed good to him. Necessity—that’s how Liadens designated an action that must, however distasteful, be taken. So, Val Con had acted as he had because it had been, in his opinion as delm, necessary.
She’d been raised on the Safe World of Delgado, and the part of her that knew violence was never the answer—was horrified by the actions he had taken against a civilized world.
A much larger part of her—the part that was a courier pilot and captain of a star ship, who had seen bad ports and bad people intent on wreaking havoc, no matter what—understood what he’d done, and why, and even, sort of, a little, admired his decisiveness.
…except for the part where he’d left behind angry people with the intent—and the means—to hunt and hurt her and hers.
They were targets, no mistake. They’d be in danger—she had to believe that they would be in danger—from the instant they broke out into normal space.
Bechimo wanted them to stay right here, safe according to him, in this dark pocket of space, until the trouble blew over. Say that Bechimo was a little timid in some matters, and that centuries of being hunted had reinforced his conviction that hiding was the best and only answer to danger.
On the other hand, they were targets; if they went to ground at Surebleak, as Shan and Val Con wanted, how was that different than staying huddled here—safe?
She sighed, reached for her teacup—
Ice blasted across her skin, gone before she could gasp, as if someone had opened a door into a raging blizzard—and closed it again.
“Bechimo!” Theo was on her feet, running toward the bridge. “What just happened?”
“Flotsam has arrived,” Bechimo said, flat-voiced.
She didn’t ask him what kind of flotsam because she was on the bridge by that time, staring at Clarence’s number two screen.
“That’s not flotsam,” she said, her eye following the eerie silhouette. “It’s a shipwreck.”